


Job: Security

by disingenue



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - The 100 (TV) Fusion, Minor Clarke Griffin/Lexa, Modern Setting Clarke Griffin/Lexa, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:40:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25519675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disingenue/pseuds/disingenue
Summary: A collection of drabbles I write so I don't sit in my chair and go nuts.
Kudos: 8





	1. Tool Use

Lexa could appreciate fire extinguishers, though she had just stubbed her toe on the one under the desk. Each month, it was the duty of the security team to conduct audits of all ninety-two fire extinguishers to make sure they were charged and recently serviced. Lexa favored this day, and it honestly had nothing to do with checking the supply of flame-combatting material in the building. She simply liked splitting duties with Lincoln, who would make records from the front desk as she ran up and down the set of thirty-six stairs, calling the man from each floor to report the status of the fire phone and fire extinguishers. Lincoln had to take it easy with footwork because of his bad knee. Lexa had energy to burn. It was a nice little arrangement.

The best part of a fire extinguisher, charged and serviced or empty and neglected, was the weight of the thing. The one under their desk was hefty and useful. Craning her head under the desk, Lexa could see scars in the red paint from where, last summer, she had used it to smash the car window for the distraught owner of a Pug the previous summer. The woman had locked her keys, with dog, in the rapidly heating car, and was told by all other services she had called for help that unlocking her car was not a priority because there was no child in the car.

Lexa provided all records necessary to write the smashed window off as ' _vandalism - unspecified_ '. No report to the police was made. The dog had come from the car with pale gums and lethargy, but after rolling up her sleeves and dunking the pup in the plaza fountain, he had quickly cooled down and would suck back the water Lexa had splashed into his mouth. _Hero._ The lady called her that. Lexa lifted one shoulder and corrected her: She was a concierge.

Lifting the fire extinguisher up, Lexa retrieved the notebook that had sat under the weight of the canister, opening it to the most recent page. Pressed upon the page was some lavender she had picked from the boulevard on Tondc street, during a stroll she had taken Clarke on at lunch time. It smelled _wondrous_ and _relaxing_. Lexa closed the notebook. She would share it with Clarke at lunch tomorrow.


	2. Black Socks

Lexa relaxed into the chair, rotating back and forth, pen twirling idly as she surveyed the slow move of post-rush-hour traffic past Trikru 3. It was as tranquil as one could ever see a large city. A soft drizzle moistened the ground. Her gaze drifted to the cameras as she spied a male, young and wiry, no more than twenty years of age. He was in the breezeway, wandering briskly but aimlessly, long, skinny arms drifting about. New-looking clothes. One bag, looks empty. Shoes in hand, bare feet. He seemed delirious rather than depressed. Was it psychosis? Poppers? She tracked him around the front of the building, watching as he wandered, turning his head this way and that.

He came to sit on a dry spot in front of the underhang. No loitering. He set his shoes on the ground, raising them to his bare feet. If he was only trying to put his shoes on and catch the bus, she was willing to live and let be. The male gawped around, going to the security desk, before he met Lexa's casual gaze. She held it. He glanced down to his shoes, struggling with the knotted laces. Okay. She glanced away, clearing some alerts off the screen of the command center. Her eyes drifted back to the man after some time. Bare feet. He was looking in his bag distractedly, withdrawing a piece of paper. Looked like a ticket or citation of some sort. Fresh from the drunk tank? Lexa rose slowly. She saw the man stiffen as she cracked the front door.

"Hey," she told him softly. "I get it. Just get your shoes on and move along." She flashed a thumbs up. They were all good. The man nervously returned one, opening his mouth to reply as she shut the door, returning to the desk.

She didn't have to pan in on the camera to see the young man struggle with his shoes. Was he disoriented? As he tried to raise his left one to his foot, he cringed. Abandoning it, he tried for the right one. His face was reddening. He tried to tease the knots out of his laces, trying again. He flinched as he tried to work the adidas past his toe. She was done watching. Reaching for the phone, she called for the patroller. She didn't wait for him to answer.

"Miller. Get down here. Nothing serious, there's just something I need to do myself."

"Yeah, one second," Miller promised. She saw him hopping on an elevator. The men came running when she called them down, hungry for action. Miller would let her handle this, though. She liked him. He would be good.

As the elevators opened on the lobby, Lexa was crouched behind the desk, feet tucked away from the camera, toeing off her shoes. Off came the socks. Miller knew better than to question her at this point when he rounded the desk.

"Take this over for a second," she asked, rising and stuffing the black socks in her pocket, away from the camera and strolling to the door. She stuck her hands in her pocket. What could he do to her, there on the ground, with stinging feet? It would take him too long to get up. He was disoriented.

"Hey."

"Hey, sorry, I'm moving, almost--"

"That looks painful." She observed, nodding to his feet. The young man opened his mouth to object.

"I get it." She glanced to the building. "We actually walk ten and a half kilometers each shift." She slowly produced the socks from her pocket. "I know this is a little weird, but... If your feet hurt as much as they look like they do, they'll take them."

The male looked at once hesitant and hopeful.

"I will swear up and down to you I don't have any weird foot stuff. If there was... like... An STD check for foot, I'd be totally clean," She encouraged, offering them forward with a smile. The man broke. He wasn't about to argue.

"Thanks," he admitted, accepting them after glancing around.

"Well, I've worn them for a few hours... but... at least I'm not a big sweaty dude," Lexa reasoned as he gingerly put one on. She crouched down beside him. "These are the best socks," she insisted. "It's all I get. My dog eats one... I don't sweat it, I just save it. He eats another one... put them together... You've still got a pair of socks," she explained.

The man smirked as he put the second one on.

"Thanks," He could only say. She listened as he told her about the men who had followed him throughout the stores, about his relapse on painkillers, about his boyfriend. Lexa nodded slowly. Understanding. At last, he was putting his shoes on. She instructed him to go to a meeting. She doubted he would, but he needed to know where she was coming from. Slowly, she stood. He pushed up after her, fetching his bag from the ground.

"Well. Good luck, wherever you are going," she bade him. He turned to her, his black-brown eyes lifting to hers meaningfully.

"Thanks again," he said, "You made my day."

"Likewise. Believe me. I get the socks from Wal-mart. Seven ninety-nine a pack."

She retreated into the building. He left the property. Thanking Miller, she took her chair, returning to pondering.

“See you tomorrow,” a lady strolling out the exit bade her, pulling her from her thoughts. She raised a friendly hand as the lady pushed out into the drizzle.

She couldn’t be bothered to write the occurrence report.


	3. Forrest Gump

Novelty in the workforce was always pleasant, so when Alistair arrived for training, Lexa told Clarke, and Anya, when highlighting her day. She enjoyed training people, because it was an excellent excuse to tour them through the building, pointing out things here and there, and lecture them on her significant special interest: her job. And they had listen. They were paid to listen. Her colleagues appreciated it too. She could contribute, in this way; training new staff. A perfect system. Lexa adored nothing more than a perfect system.  
  
Normally, when they sat at the half-moon desk, Lexa would impart to trainees valuable information as to when they must pay attention to the cameras, and what they could do to stave off boredom and insanity after hours, when the job became mind-numbingly dull. Alistair was not at risk for going crazy from boredom. Alistair was vacant. Her coworkers had nicknamed him Forrest Gump, for (as though it wasn't enough that he didn't exude intelligence, and even spoke slightly like the character) he had the same crew cut.  
  
If she caught herself staring, it was usually because she was envisioning the several brain cells he possessed drifting around in his head like dandelion fluff. She had grown tired of talking to him; she didn’t enjoy his company, she set her goals for interacting with him merely at courtesy. He opened his mouth to break the silence, probably to discuss something repetitive, and/or irrelevant. Though she pushed herself to socialize, and to enjoy company, right now the company she really craved was her own. She wanted to watch the CCTV, and journal.  
  
“Thanks for your help, Alistair, you can go to the security office,” Lexa bade him stealthily. He obliged her without question-- that was one great thing about people of... less than average... intelligence, ambling towards the back. Lexa swiveled in the chair, fetching her journal and her pen from her bag. As she was starting into her journal, her phone began vibrating. She ignored it for a bit, before pulling it out. The group text was blowing up. Whatever. She resumed with pen to paper, glancing up only to scan the CCTV, and smile to all who entered and exited the lobby, trying to think of something friendly and thoughtful to say to each of them.  
  
When Indra came to relieve her of the front desk, she sauntered into the back. Gus, Miller and Lincoln were fraternize in the secret room behind the pocket door. Lexa went over to pour herself a coffee.  
  
"Lexa, did you get the group text?" Gus asked of her.  
  
"I don't take my phone out at the front, you know that," Lexa reminded him.  
  
"It's different... ah, whatever."  
  
"But Lexa, why didn't you just send Alistair on patrol," Miller probed her.  
  
"I don't want to share my patrols with him," Lexa told him honestly. Miller was the kind of guy who 'got it'. That of the set number of patrols that they were assigned per shift, Lexa was unwilling to "share" her patrols. That was her opportunity to move. She needed it.  
  
"Okay, but... Why'd you send him to the back?" Lincoln piped up.  
  
"Because when he opens his mouth, it makes me want to open and oven, and stick my head in it," Lexa returned swiftly. The tiny room filled to the brim with guffaws. They weren't laughing at her. They were laughing with her. Well, a little, they were laughing at her. Lexa was aware that her quirks could be humorous, and she had no problem with people laughing at that. As long as it was kind. As long as it was in a way that embraced her differences, and her unique presence in a group of friends. She could be standoffish, she was aware of that, and for reasons not fully understood to her, that endeared her to the other guards all the better.  
  
“Want to come out for some fresh air,” she invited Miller and Lincoln. That was their metaphor for ‘smoke break’. Irony.  
  
Lincoln whistled through his teeth. “Killing me slowly, Woods,” he berated her. But not literally. But sort of. Because, cancer. The three headed outside.  
  
As they chatted beyond the Yellow Line, Lexa’s attention meandered to her phone. Clicking past the picture of Titus, she noted with mild anxiety the queue of messages in the group chat. Opening the app, she perused the conversation.  
  
  
  
Gus @ 13:32: What is Alistair doing in the back?  
  
Miller @ 13:32: ???  
  
Gus @ 13:32: It's for Lexa  
  
Lincoln @ 13:33: XD  
  
Gus @ 13:33: He is just chillin  
  
Miller @ 13:33: X'D  
  
Lincoln @ 13:34: He's scaring the cleaners  
  
Miller @ 13:34: Fuck he's an idiot  
  
Lincoln @ 13:35: Idiot is the understatement of the year I strongly feel security is not his job  
  
“Lexa? Eh Lex?”  
  
She glanced to the men, zoning back in, if only to say “Yeah,” dismissively. She had a strange feeling in her chest. _What had she been thinking? She hadn’t been, had she?_ When she opened her mouth. She had been thoughtless. And even cruel. She had enjoyed inclusion, at the expense of someone else’s. Someone who might need it more than her, even. Her cigarette was finished. Her hands went to her pocket for another one.  
  
“Lex, everything alright?” Miller pressed as she lit up again.  
  
“Yes,” she asserted distantly, now opening up her calendar on her phone. This was not a discussion to have with Miller and Lincoln, not just yet. “Well, no, but I will be,” she decided to disclose to them, “I just realized I forgot something...” Forgot what it was like. To not be understood. Or welcome. Or part-of. ‘Shitty’ was the vernacular for how she felt, she guessed. This was an Anya thing.  
  
**00:30 : Call Anya**  
-discuss shittiness, re: Alistair  
  
She pocketed her phone, ready to engage again.  
  
"So, do we know what's going on with that police report?"  
  



	4. Just Surviving Today

Lexa recognized the thin brown face when she went for her coffee at 1545. She was trying something new with her routine. A decaf and a sugary donut. She was relieved that the inspiration had hit when her usual clerk that she interfaced with had switched shifts. 

Though she couldn't quite place the face she recognized (which happened sometimes, but not very often), she knew from his appearance that she had met him at work. It had likely been dark at the time, and he might have been concealing his face with a hood or by looking at the ground, as the homeless tended to do when they were ashamed or wary, deep down. 

"Hi there," she thought to say, now that she had sensed the spark of recognition across the man's young face. "How's it going?" Standard greeting. Casual, versatile, short. 

"Oh... just," the fellow said as he chewed at his sandwich, his smallish form dwarfed by the large booth he was seated in. "Just surviving today," he finished truthfully. 

Lexa nodded thoughtfully. "Me too," she agreed. "No shame in that.'

He agreed. Lexa drifted to the lineup, wondering whether it was worth putting some rap on as she surveyed the cafe. She remembered something. 

"Please, miss, is there any chance I could buy... buy a smoke off you?"

Lexa stopped in her tracks, reaching for her cigarettes. The voice came from a loading bay off the property, which was all Alex needed to know. She had known who was sitting there before she even started her patrol. Male, aboriginal, 18-25 years old, 5'4, 110 lbs, with brown eyes and brown skin, clean-shaven face, wearing a black hooded sweatshirt, blue jeans, and black shoes. He sad huddled on a set of aluminum steps in the sheltered area, several bags and packs surrounding him. 

Nodding and turning, she produced a cigarette and walked over to offer it to the young man, refusing any of the handful of nickels and dimes he was beginning to count out for her tentatively. He thanked her profusely. She told him to stay safe, and continued on her patrol. 

It was her turn to order. Glancing to the unfamiliar face behind the register, she stalled for a moment, mouth hanging ungracefully open as she took the moment to make some executive decisions. 

"Uh...," she stalled. "I'll get a-- no, extra-large decaf, and two birthday cake donuts," she spat out at last. Helping the clerk, whose first language was not English, she ensured that the two donuts were packaged separately. As she exited the cafe, she paused to quickly drop a boxed up donut before the young man. "The sugar... gives you power. To survive," she counseled him vaguely. He seemed pleased with this. 

He had been testing her. To see if she was the one. The security guard at Trikru 3. The white girl who bummed smokes. 

It was not the first time Lexa had realized she had been tested. It always took her a bit longer to process, however. She had come to understand that from the way she strode the perimeter of the building to reached into her pocket for a smoke without a second thought, some recognized her as a soldier. A soldier on their side. And Lexa didn't think they were off the mark in doing so. She, as had so many others that came onto her territory, had survived a war. Lexa pondered how she might control her reputation, since there was a good chance the various hobos in the area were sharing information with each-other as to where a slack guard would give out a smoke for free. Many denizens of the streets had adopted for themselves 'street names'. Rappers did much the same. 

The next time she saw the small man and he asked for a smoke, she learned that his name was Trevor. She recorded the entire encounter in her notebook, along with his name so she would not forget it. She gave him her street name. She asked him to call her Angry Lexa.


	5. Peering Through the Keyhole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hot, bored, and not making sense today.

Lexa sniffed, and shifted in the chair. Her mask was more tolerable to wear for putting a drop of lavender or clary sage oil in it, but she still despised the thing. She had blended some oils for Clarke, who was noticeably more subdued when she had to veil her normally expressive mouth. It was refreshing when the oils seemed to restore Clarke's normally bright affect, in spite of the ominous events going on in the world. The only interesting thing about the masks was watching people struggle to discern the facial expressions of others. Her green gaze shifted from frame to frame as she wondered, just for fun, how long masks would have to be worn for, and how humans would adapt to the loss of ability to express themselves with themselves with their mouth. Lexa noticed these sorts of things with the greatest interest. 

Many people mutter to themselves when alone. Lexa had concluded this only a short while after being awarded the job of watching CCTV when she started at Trikru 3. She especially liked watching people who found themselves alone in the elevator. They would groom themselves, practice martial arts, flex their muscles, even pick their noses... The one behavior that was rare to see in the elevator was for people to actually turn around and notice the camera nestled in one of the back corners of the elevator. Elevators, as an access point, should always be assumed to be monitored. Lexa thought that most people would naturally be aware of the elevator cameras. This was not the case. Either people didn't think cameras existed in the elevator, or they forgot they were there as soon as they saw a blemish on their face or some broccoli between their teeth. 

The guard remembered Marshall McLuhan, who thought that people were growing out of touch with natural human behavior because they copied the behavior of characters on television rather than each-other. Lexa had to give it to the philosopher; the fake people on TV acted extremely different when alone, when she compared their behavior to the people on her television screen-- the Closed Circuit Television. Perhaps that screwed people up. She used to think that she was alone in acting unnaturally. And Lexa didn't think it wrong that she was technically spying on people; first, the property had fulfilled their legal obligation of informing guests on the property that they were on CCTV. It was ethical research, as far as Lexa was concerned. She was even paid to research, if you wanted to look at it that way. Lexa loved doing her job. She felt a little sad for the sorts of people who tried hard to copy people in the media, and who themselves became fake in the process. 

The odd time, the thoughts of Sartre would enter her head, and she would grow curious as to who was spying on her through the keyhole as she spied on the people of Trikru 3 through her own digital keyhole. The thought disturbed her no more, though it used to do just that. Nowadays, she only fretted that Gus would notice her furtively texting or sending memes to Clarke. She knew for a fact that there was a camera pointed at the back of her head right now, which is why if she snuck a text to Clarke, she would do it with her phone directly in front of her head, so that her own head would obscure it. 

Jean Paul Sartre was also famous for saying “hell is other people.” But he also used amphetamines, probably to cope with his depressing fucking philosophy, and Lexa wasn’t about that life anymore. She literally had to see where most amphetamine users, the ones that weren’t famous, wound up every day. Usually hiding at the bottom of a stairwell, looking for some invisible object they believe they had dropped, with Lexa telling them she had seen it across the street just to get them the fuck off the property. It was much more productive to believe that whatever spied on her through the keyhole was every bit as curious, well-intentioned, and protective as her. Since Lexa had come to believe this, she began to feel far less disturbed than Sartre had, according to himself, felt. 

When the intimidatingly attractive, strong-willed, sometimes defiant blonde had intruded on her building, for instance, Lexa had trusted, as did she with everything else, that though the situation caused her discomfort, it was happening for a good reason. And looking back, she hadn't been wrong. That was par for course, pretty much, for Lexa was scarcely wrong. 


End file.
